


Bittersweet Surrender

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos decides it's time to leave, but MacLeod has other ideas.</p><p>This was started before I saw "One Minute To Midnight." Any similarities are purely coincidental, as well as downright scary. A few liberties were taken with this; Richie is in Paris the same time as Methos, Joe and Duncan.  It's winter, and Joe is in the middle of buying a bar in Paris.  After thinking about it, Joe might have bought Kalas' place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> This is only the third story I've written for HL. Originally posted in 1996 under my other pseud Shelley Wright. I have a sequel finished for this, titled "Power Play", and it's sequel, "Life's Lessons."

Adam Pierson walked briskly along the Seine, hugging his well-worn trenchcoat to his lean body. Snow was falling lightly, and he could see the air whooshing from between his lips. He passed by well-bundled people hurrying home, but didn't even glance up. He had finally come to the realization that he had spent too much time "out". "Out" being Adam Pierson, grad student; "out" being Adam Pierson, mild-mannered Watcher; and "out" being Methos, Duncan MacLeod's friend.

The last part niggled at him, but he brushed the thought away. MacLeod would understand. Methos had been in partial hiding for most of his life. Methos was used to being alone, studying history and seeing where it had been rewritten from what he himself had written, back when it was current events.

It was time for Adam Pierson to disappear.

~~~~~~~~

"Hey Mac, have you seen Adam lately?" Richie Ryan called as he bounded into the barge, shaking snow onto the floor.

"Hey, be careful!" Duncan warned, waving a spoon at the young redhead. "Don't get water all over the floor."

"Oh, excuse me," Richie bowed slightly, grinning. "Afraid you'll have to clean again?" He sniffed the air; MacLeod was cooking something that smelled wonderful.

"Yes!" Duncan snarled good-naturedly, one corner of his mouth twitching. He fought off his grin, glancing down to Richie's feet. "And take off your boots!"

"All right, all right," Richie grumbled, toeing off his boots and letting them thump to the floor in a heap. He glided across the floor, nearly slipping on the polished wood, catching himself on a support beam. "So Mac, have you seen Adam?" he asked again.

Duncan returned to stirring whatever was in the pot on the stove. "What do you want with Adam?" he asked as he added some spice to the pot.

"He said he had some CDs for me, but I haven't seen him in a few days. I  _really_ wanted them, Mac," Richie pouted, a glimmer in his eyes.

Duncan glanced at his young friend, again fighting the urge to grin. Despite being Immortal, Richie was still transparent; the desire in his eyes could only mean one thing. "I take it this was 'make out' music for a date?" he inquired.

"How do you do that, Mac?" Richie sighed exasperatedly, snatching a raw carrot from the cutting board.

"Do what?" MacLeod asked innocently, stirring the contents while adding some veggies to the pot.

"Read my mind like that. Know it was a date." He paused, a smug grin spreading across his face. "At least you don't know who it's with."

"Sure I do." Duncan turned down the heat and wiped his hands, turning to his student. "It's with the brunette from the lunch counter. Maxine, right?"

Richie's jaw dropped. "Mac!" he wailed, throwing up his hands. "Do Immortals have this knack for knowing everything?"

"Only those who live long enough," Duncan retorted, moving quickly past Richie into the living area, plopping down on the couch. He grinned, watching Richie shake his head.

"I don't believe this," he mumbled, hands on hips. He turned to MacLeod, stretched out on the couch. "So have you seen Adam or not?"

"No, I haven't seen him," Duncan answered, distracted for a second by the thought. "He's probably busy with...business."

"Yeah, right." Richie dropped into a chair opposite the older Immortal, munching on the carrot stick. "The guy's constantly here, always hanging around, then he disappears for a few days, and you're not worried."

"Why should I be worried?" Mac said a little too quickly. He _had_ been beginning to wonder where Adam, aka Methos, was, and Richie's questions only heightened his concern. His forehead creased as he thought, a familiar gesture that Richie detected.

"You are worried," Richie announced quietly. "You don't think..."

"No," Duncan snapped, rising and checking on the pot. He slammed a lid on it and returned to the living area, staring down at Richie. "He's fine. He's prone to this; wandering around. He'll come back."  _When he's good and damn ready_.

"If you say so, Mac." Richie sounded doubtful. He suddenly inhaled deeply. "So, got enough for me?"

MacLeod sniffed with dignity. "I never have enough food for you." Hardly raising an eyebrow at Richie's scathing look, he added, "All right. But you have to do the dishes."

Richie's grin flashed across his face. "Deal."

And no more was said about Adam Pierson for the rest of the night.

~~~~~~~~

Adam stepped out of the bookstore, tucking his purchase under his coat to protect it. The snow was falling harder now, and he didn't think the damp weather would improve the condition of the book. He had been lucky to find it; the owner had no idea what the ancient markings were, but Methos did. He had made them.

Shivering, Adam detoured by a small coffee shop, stopping inside and ordering a hot toddy...one of the few drinks he could stand that wasn't beer. Blowing on his hands to warm them, his eyes made a quick sweep of the shop. Fairly small, very quiet, pleasant.  _A rarity in France_ he thought with a slight frown. He definitely needed to get away. He had spent the better part of fifty years in Paris, and the city had once again wearied him.  _Maybe I'll try a warmer climate this time,_ he thought, then shook his head minutely.  _No, Methos boy, you've had enough heat in your life_. A flash of the Egyptian pyramids being constructed in the unforgiving glare of the desert sun crossed his mind, and he unconsciously licked his lips. Closing his eyes, he could see the harsh Saharan desert stretching to the horizon, hear the mingled cries of the slavemasters and the workers, taste the salt of his own sweat. Goddess, he missed those times.

"Did you need anything else?"

Adam blinked, quickly translating the woman's words. "Non, merci," he murmured, offering the waitress a small smile.

"As you wish," she replied, her eyes flicking over him before she turned to the counter.

Adam's gaze on her back went unnoticed by her. It was one of Methos' tricks; to observe carefully while being invisible yourself. Took centuries of work, but he was now a master at it.  _Except for lately_...

Adam thought back over the past few months. From the time Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had entered his apartment, and his life. Kalas. Kristin. The Dark Quickening. Joe. The Watchers. His life was definitely getting too crowded. It was time to thin it out a bit; to leave and start anew. Drawing a deep breath, he glanced around the coffee shop one more time before leaving some francs on the table. Nodding to the waitress, he ducked his head and opened the door, heading against the howling wind.

~~~~~~~~

It was growing quite obvious that Adam Pierson didn't want to be found. It had been two weeks, and MacLeod was truly worried. He was sure - pretty sure - nearly sure, that if another Immortal had taken Methos' head, he would have heard about it. At the very least, the Watchers would have heard of it, and Joe would have told him. Or would he?

"Hey Joe," Duncan tried to sound lighthearted over the phone.

"Hey Mac," Joe tossed back at his friend, the noise of the bar causing him to raise his voice a bit.

"Joe, listen. I need to ask you something, but not over the phone." Mac fidgeted. "It's about a mutual friend."

Joe caught the hesitancy in his friend's voice. "Come on by, Mac. The place is packed, but it'll be easier for you to get inside unnoticed."

Duncan let out a breath. He hated sneaking in to see his friend, but he knew that Joe was bending the rules of his game, and he didn't want to get him in trouble. "All right. I'll be there in a half hour."

"See ya."

Duncan listened to the dial tone for a minute, then hung up slowly. Dawson hadn't sounded concerned; and surely he would have called if Adam hadn't shown up at Watcher Headquarters. Grabbing his coat, Duncan braved the cold winter air.

~~~~~~~~

"I hate moving," Adam grumbled, closing the box and sealing it with tape. He sat amidst box-pile after box-pile, in his cold, damp basement, sorting out his chronicles. His life. He spared a glance at the remaining stacks of books on the shelves, and threw down the tape in disgust. "I'll never get this organized. But I have to, or else they'll get soaked again in the spring." Sighing patiently, he picked up an empty box and moved to the next shelf, carefully stacking chronicles inside.

"Another day or two, old man, and you should have it," he murmured to himself. Hearing the quiet answer him, he looked around and dug out his headphones. Popping in a CD, he hummed along with Cream as they sang "Sunshine of Your Love".

~~~~~~~~

Duncan barely spared Joe's new bar a glance as he nodded at Joe behind the bar. Inclining his head to the back office, Duncan sat himself at the bar, finally taking in the atmosphere. Definitely American. Blues. Dark and mysterious. His glance fell to Joe, who mouthed 'just a sec' and mixed another drink. Smiling at his customer, he whispered to the other bartender that he'd be gone a few mintues, then walked with Duncan to the back office, Duncan explaining as they moved.

"Sure, Adam's called me a few times; let me know what he's doing," Joe shrugged, sitting down with a grunt at his desk.

MacLeod's eyes darkened as he regarded the Watcher. "You mean he's contacted you? How long ago?"

Joe thought a second. "Three days ago. Said he was working on Meth- er, his chronicles," Joe corrected himself, still a bit awed, not to mention peeved, that Adam was Methos, the oldest living Immortal. He was one of two people that knew he was Methos, but he had known him first as Adam.

"So he's at his apartment?" Duncan asked, his expression hopeful.

Joe shook his head. "I don't know. He never said where he was, just that he was working. I can't even tell you if he's in the country anymore. Mac, is something wrong?" Joe asked as Duncan's eyes clouded over.

"He hasn't been by to see me in a few days, is all," Duncan mumbled, looking dejected.

Joe bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Mac, Methos is a very big boy. He can take care of himself. Don't let his looks fool you," he warned softly. "He's lived this long by being unassuming. But I guarantee you, he can take care of himself."

"I know that," Duncan snapped, pacing the small office. "But why hasn't he contacted me? Or Richie?"

Joe watched Duncan's face as he paced.  _Mac, you're acting like a jilted lover. Is that what this is about_? Aloud, he said, "I don't know Mac. He's a loner; maybe it got too much for him."

MacLeod stopped pacing and stared directly at Joe. "What got too much?"

Joe waved a hand vaguely. "Watcher business; being in the Game, even partially again; being around other Immortals. Being  _in_ , Mac. He's not exactly Mr. Party Guy."

"You've never had to supply him a night of beer," Mac grumbled, scowling.

"Oh, yes I have," Joe's smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. His smile faded. "But that 's not what I meant, and you know it. He just needs some time."

"'Some time' for us might be years!" Duncan's temper finally got the better of him, and his voice echoed in the small office.

Joe winced. "Easy there, Mac. Methos has to be set apart from the rest of you; from the rest of Humanity. Don't ask me why," Joe forestalled the Highlander's question. "He just _is_. It's something he's had to accept."

"Oh, like it isn't hard for the rest of us," Duncan snapped, but his voice lowered as Joe's words began to sink in.

"Of course not. But you're not even five centuries old. He's five millennia old. Nearly as old as civilization itself. That's a huge burden to carry around with you, Mac." Joe paused, internally shaking his head.  _I'm telling an Immortal how to deal with Immortality. This is nuts_! On a hunch, Joe added, "And just maybe, he got scared."

That got MacLeod's gander up. "Scared? What's he to be scared of? He's lived longer than nearly all of us combined," he gripped the edge of Joe's desk until his knuckles turned white, staring down at the Watcher, his eyes flashing.

Joe's answer was quiet. "Maybe that's what he's scared of."

~~~~~~~~

"That should do it." Adam pushed the last box in place, then carefully checked the lower shelves again. No, it looked like he had gotten all of them this time. _Rain, damn you. You won't get to them this time_ , he cursed the Parisian spring. Wiping his hands on his jeans, Adam did a quick survey of the basement. Everything was up off the floor. Lower shelves were empty, and the rafters were full.  _Damn. It feels like I moved everything_ ,Adam lamented, debating on whether to clean the floor, or just leave it.  _Fuck it. It's not important. No one knows it's here, anyway_ . . . his thoughts jarred themselves, all trying to get his attention at once.  _MacLeod knows_. Again wiping his hands on his filthy jeans, Adam snatched the tape and headphones and headed up the stairs two at a time, determined to be out of there by dawn.

~~~~~~~~

"He's in hiding. That's what you're saying," Duncan mused as he sat down across from his friend.

Joe nodded, then shrugged. "I'm only guessing." He leaned backward, resting his head on the chair back. "Mac, he's old. Really old. And I have a feeling he's really tired. Have you ever gotten a sense of that?"

"Tired? No," MacLeod answered with a scoff, but a memory flashed through his mind.

When Adam had come to America, to warn him that Kristin was in town.  _It's good to keep busy,_ he had said, in answer to MacLeod's description of restoring a house.

And there were other small moments. His comment that it might be better to have amnesia, to forget everything and start over. Even his voice as he explained why he took Kristin's head had a hollow note to it. And, lest he forget, his offering of his head, to enable Duncan to defeat Kalas.

MacLeod shook his head. "Okay, so he's tired. Doesn't he think we all get tired of the Game after awhile?"

"You have to remember, Mac, that he's also posing as a Watcher; Methos' researcher. While it may seem an easy way to hide to you, believe me, it isn't. Sure, the other Watchers mainly leave him alone, but any really serious dig into his past would expose him. He's walking a dangerous line..."

"Then why is he doing it?" MacLeod demanded, clenching his fist resting on the arm of the chair. "Why doesn't he come out of hiding, quit the Watchers, and just...live."

"Not everyone has your zest for life, Highlander," Joe answered softly, remembering a time when he hadn't wanted to go on living, either. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his legs aching as he remembered.

"Yeah, well..." Duncan's voice trailed off as he noticed the look on Joe's face. He blushed slightly, and averted his eyes. "Maybe he just needs to remember what there is to live for," he said quietly.

MacLeod looked thoughtful for a minute, then snapped to attention. "Joe, thanks, but I've got to go. If Methos does call in, tell him not to leave town. Not just yet." MacLeod stood and was out the door before Joe could open his mouth.

"He's already gone," he whispered to the Highlander's retreating back.

~~~~~~~~

Mac felt a Buzz of another Immortal as he left Joe's, but a quick glance around showed Richie.

"Hey, Mac," Richie shouted, running across the street to join his friend in front of Joe's.

"Richie, I'm in kind of a hurry," MacLeod explained distractedly. He turned left down the street, Richie falling into step beside him.

"But Mac, you'll never believe what showed up today. What the courier delivered." Richie danced in front of the older Immortal, walking backwards. "Mac, it was boxes of CDs and tapes. Hundreds of 'em," the young man flushed, his eyes sparkling. "Some of the best around, and some of the strangest too." The sparkle left his eye as MacLeod slowed, then stopped.

"Who were they from?" MacLeod asked quietly.

Richie studied the older Immortal, noting the clench of his jaw, the sadness in his eyes. "Adam. Hey Mac, where are you going?" Richie called after his retreating back. Before the first syllables left his lips, Duncan had pushed past him, a wild look in his eyes.

"You're welcome," Richie muttered, wondering what had gotten into his friend.

~~~~~~~~

He placed his sword carefully inside its case, then closed it reverently. Methos ran his hands over the lid, tracing the faint markings that had faded with time. Taking a deep breath, he tucked the long case under his arm and opened the front door. The apartment was empty; most of his belongings were in storage; his more personal effects and necessities were in the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Never one to look back, he slammed the door and walked down the stairs to his Volvo, tossing his things inside and sliding behind the steering wheel. Revving the engine, he waited until it warmed up, then started out slowly, the crunch of snow under his tires nearly drown out by the sound of REM's "Man on the Moon."

The wipers flicked snowflakes off the windshield, counterpoint to the beat provided to the song. Methos sang along quietly, humming more than singing actual words. The heater finally warmed him, taking the chill out of his bones, as he crept his way through mid-afternoon traffic.

Grumbling to himself,  _now I remember why I hid from civilization_ , he turned right, out of the flow of traffic and headed down a side street. With a jolt, he realized where he was heading.  _Joe's._

"Okay, Methos old boy. You know your own rules. You're leaving; no interaction with the old life. No stopping." Even as he reminded himself, he found the car pulling alongside the curb and stopping, found himself stepping from the warmth of the car and into the blustery winter day. Shoving his hands deep in his pockets, he started for the door, then remembered his sword. Knowing how often Joe's attracted Immortals -- no matter what side of the Atlantic he was on ---, he quickly reached inside and tucked the carefully polished weapon into his trenchcoat, then shut the door. Turning, he felt the Buzz.

 _Shit_! Not wanting to have a fight in Joe's, he headed down the alley next to the bar. He waited, sword held lightly but firmly in his hand, for his opponent to announce himself.

"Come out, come out wherever you are," a low voice, lightly accented, whispered through the alley.

 _Oh, great. A smart-ass._ Methos winced, feeling the Immortal move closer.

"Hey, this isn't very fair. It's cold out here. Let's get this over with." The voice had hardened, taking on a rough street-edge.

 _Even better. A street punk_. Ignoring the voices inside him, reminding him that  _he_ had been a street punk once, though in those days it had a much uglier word, he stepped from the shadows.

"Aww, am I keeping you from your afternoon nap?" Methos taunted, holding his sword in both hands defensively. "I'm so sorry. Let me make it up to you. Perhaps..." he studied the kid in front of him. Long, straggly hair, leather jacket, chains and a wicked-looking dagger attached to the side of his boot. "A haircut would suit you."

The kid laughed harshly. "Great. Just great." The sword spun around in his hand, finding a comfortable grip. "I get to behead an oldie. How old are you, anyway?" he hissed, an edge of danger to his voice.

"Old enough," Methos snapped back, as the two of them began circling each other slowly. Methos stepped carefully, noting the junk lying below the snow under his feet.

"Nah, come on man. It's no fun unless you..." they both felt the arrival of another Immortal, and the younger one smiled. Evilly. "As I was saying, it's no fun if you don't know what sort of Quickening you're about to get. And for the fireworks, I've invited a friend."

Methos tossed a glance to the newcomer, a fairly-nicely dressed woman looking to be in her mid-20s. She snapped some gum, keeping her hands inside her short jacket. "Hope you don't mind. I like watching him. He's good," she warned, none-too-subtly.

"I've no doubt," Methos muttered, aware that these two were probably part of those younger Immortals who didn't care about the Rules. He would have to watch his back, but didn't want to divide his attention. "What's your name, kid?" Methos asked, hoping to get the other Immortal mad enough to strike first.

"I ain't no kid," he snarled, jabbing the tip of his sword at Methos' chest. Methos flinched, but didn't back away. "And the name's Bond. James Bond." The kid laughed at his joke, the woman smiling. "What's yours?"

"Oh, you really don't want to ask me that," Methos shook his head slightly to emphasize his words, his face hardening into a dangerous mask.

"Why not?" the young Immortal demanded, as his sword lashed out. Hitting Methos in the leg, slicing through his pants effortlessly, slicing skin open to the bone.

Gritting his teeth, Methos cursed himself for letting the punk get in that close. Unwilling to move, letting the wound heal that much quicker, Methos stood his ground. "Lucky shot, kid. And it's also your last," he taunted, drawing the other Immortal closer.

"Aaaahhhhh," the kid screamed, raising his sword high and bringing it down toward his opponent's head. Methos parried easily, tossing him off-balance, headlong into the snow. Spitting mad, the punk wiped his face, blinking water from his eyes. "You're gonna pay for that."

Charging, the kid swung upward this time, blocked again by Methos. The kid spun around, aiming chest-high, only to be blocked on the other side. His eyes blazing with anger and a taste of blood, the kid sliced the air, aiming at Methos' head, then chest, then feet, over and over, blocked effortlessly each time. Howling, he backed away, blinking sweat out of his eyes. "Who are you, man?" he rasped, catching his breath.

Methos still hadn't moved, the snow beneath him soaked with his own blood, his wound now healed. Now, he smiled, a dangerous smile adding to the dangerous look in his eye. "I told you, you don't want to ask me that," he replied quietly, finally moving from his stance. Advancing on the kid, Methos attacked, the kid putting up a vicious defense.

Their swords clashed, the air heavy with sparks and the sound of their grunting, their blood-spatters coloring the newfallen snow. Methos had gotten the kid up against the alley wall, scared now, deflecting blows purely on instinct. The kid brought his sword up to protect his neck, but it suddenly spun out of his hand. Instead, Methos' sword was there, blade pressed against his exposed neck. The kid's eyes widened, fearful for the first time.

"Quel est ton nom?" Methos asked, breathing hard, pressing the blade tighter against the kid's neck.

"Depardeau. Francois Depardeau," the kid wheezed, inching up on his toes. The blade followed.

"Now, Francois, pay very close attention. I've won fairly." His eyes hardened as he regarded the kid. "Tell her to stop."

The blade nicked his neck, and Francois felt the blood start to trickle down his skin. "Marie! Stop," he called, wondering how in the hell this man had known she was in back of him.

"Bien. Now," Methos grabbed the kid's shoulder, hauling him away from the wall. "I think it's time you offered me your head." He was heartened when the kids' face fell into acceptance; maybe he wasn't such a punk after all.

"Monsoir, s'il vous plait," Francois panted, his voice soft, falling back into what Methos guessed was his native language.

"Oui?" Methos replied, raising the sword from his hip, behind his head, stopping high above his left shoulder.

"Quel est ton nom?" he asked calmly, raising his eyes to meet Methos'.

He paused a second. "Methos," he murmured, watching the kid's eyes go wide with awe, whispering, "Mon deau," as the blade stroked downward, severing his head neatly from his body.

Methos stepped back, swirls of mist rising from Francois' body and surrounding him. Wrapping him in a blanket of warmth and security, but Methos knew better. The first shock hit, and he grunted, flinging his hands out from his sides. The second wave of Quickening hit him, battering his body worse than his opponent had, energy burning through him, igniting each nerve ending, ecstasy and pain rolled into one. A strangled cry caught in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut as the last burst through him, jerking his body like a piece of cloth.  _Damn, that hurt_ , he thought through a haze of pain/pleasure.

"You bastard," the woman whispered, and Methos turned quickly, sword at the ready. He lowered his sword as he caught sight of her, kneeling by Francois, her hands on his chest.

Steeling himself, he walked away, down the alley. And came face-to-face with Joe Dawson.

"Adam!" Joe hissed, grabbing the Immortal by the arm and steering him back into the alley. "Don't go back there. And put that away." His cane touched Methos' sword. "I had...friends over, and they know what happened," he murmured.

 _Shit again._ Methos muttered a few words that Joe couldn't recognize, cussing in some ancient language, he supposed. "Did any of them see?" Methos asked, smoothing his ruffled clothes and hair.

"No. None of them wanted to be spotted. But Francois' Watcher was there, and she's going to need a complete report. You'd be better off if you left right now," Joe warned, as he heard the other Watchers enter the alley.

"No." Methos stopped and turned to face Joe, his features set in determination. "I'm going to tell them what I know."

"No!" Joe tried to block him, but Methos skirted the Watcher, heading into the assembled Watchers.

 _Like a lamb to the slaughter_ , Joe thought as he watched Adam talking to the other Watchers, waving his arms wildly.

Awed, Joe watched as Adam acted out the fight, stumbling through the moves as if he'd never seen a swordfight before, never mind had been fighting them for five millennia. Soon, the Watchers thinned out, and Joe stepped up beside Methos.

"Nothing to it," Adam remarked, sighing.

"Oh, right. Nothing to it," Joe lamented, shaking his head. "Come on," he slapped his friend on the back. "Let me buy you a beer."

A smile flickered across the Ancient Immortal's face. "An offer I've never refused," Adam retorted, allowing the Watcher to lead him back to the bar.

~~~~~~~~~

"Dammit Methos, where are you?" MacLeod hissed through his clenched teeth, standing in the empty apartment of Adam Pierson. Not a trace of the oldest living Immortal was present, though the landlady had said he had just left that morning.

 _Too late_ , whispered through MacLeod's mind, but he clamped it down. "No," he stated emphatically to the empty apartment. "I'm not too late. He's still here."  _I can feel him_.

Turning on his heel, Duncan walked quickly to Methos' special hideout; the entrance to his underground storage. The lightbulb cast deep shadows in every corner, and MacLeod just stood, turning slowly, taking it all in. The room was spotless. The books were all gone; the chronicles that Methos treasured were boxed - he finally found them high on the shelves.  _At least he paid attention to me_... Duncan thought before his thoughts failed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joe watched the Immortal start in on his fifth beer, and sighed. "Why?" he asked quietly.

He and Adam had went into Joe's back office, offering them a little privacy. Now, Adam leaned back in his chair, slumped far down into the leather seat.

"Why what? Why did I tell them? Why did I fight him? Or..." he looked at Joe through lowered lashes, able to read him like a book. "Why am I leaving and not saying anything to MacLeod." The last was finished as a statement, not a question, as Methos twirled the bottle slowly, watching the liquid inside slosh around.

"Yes," Joe answered simply, leaning forward on the tip of his cane, taking pressure off his back. The chair he sat in squeaked softly. "Mac's been a good friend to you. He deserves better than you've given him."

"And what do you expect me to do, Joe?" Methos hissed, slamming the bottle to the desktop. Joe flinched, but didn't break his lock on Methos' eyes. "Give up my life? Give up my head? Because hanging around Duncan MacLeod means just that."

"It doesn't have to," Joe said quietly, though Methos refused to listen.

"Yes, it does Joe. Look at what's happened in the last few months. I've taken two heads, been exposed as an Immortal to the Watchers, been kidnapped, witnessed a Dark Quickening, watched Alexa die..." Methos' voice drifted away, as memories of Alexa washed over him. His expression immediately appeared defeated. "I'm tired, Joe. So very, very tired."

"I know." Joe remained where he was, watching the oldest living Immortal work through his memories. Methos' face changed as his memories shifted; anger, love, rage, passion, happiness, intense sorrow, amusement, pain. And finally, acceptance. Methos lifted his eyes to Joe's, and Joe noticed the light was a bit dimmer.

"I have to leave. It has to be this way." Methos stood, nodding once to Joe. "Have a good life, Joe." And he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Duncan wandered the streets, on his way to Joe's. His steps sounded heavy on the crisp snow, a dull thud matching the dull pounding in his head. Finally reaching the door, his hand reached to grasp the handle, when the Buzz hit him. Flicking his gaze around him, he surmised the Immortal was on the other side. Hope flared that it might be Methos, but on hope's heels was the remembered fact that Richie was staying in town, and was probably inside with the owner. Sighing, he opened the door and stepped inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methos nodded to the 'tender behind the bar and strode to the door, then stopped dead in his tracks as if he had been smacked in the face. The Buzz cut through him, and he desperately wished he hadn't had that last beer. There could only be one other Immortal on the other side of the door, and he braced himself. When it opened, Methos said quietly, "Hello Highlander."

Duncan's jaw fell open as Methos stood before him, calmly welcoming him. His stance was non-threatening, but there was a hardness in his eyes; warning him of the Ancient Immortal's mental state.

"Adam," Duncan nodded, not moving an inch, effectively blocking the door.

"Mac!" Joe called, walking into the room. He eyed the two Immortals, then waved at the bar. "Have a seat. Adam here was just looking for you."

Methos' head spun around, glaring through narrowed eyes at the Watcher.

Joe just smiled. "Mac?" he inquired, waving at two stools at the bar.

MacLeod's glance flicked from Joe to Methos, feeling the tension increase tenfold in the room. He let his eyes rest on Methos. "Is that true?" he asked quietly, his hands digging deep into his coat pockets.

A muscle twitched on the Ancient Immortal's cheek. "No." The word barely made it through his lips, but it hit MacLeod like a brick wall, square in his chest.

"Adam," Joe growled threateningly from his stance behind the bar. Methos didn't acknowledge him.

"I guess I will say good-bye to you after all, MacLeod. It's been..." Methos' voice trailed off as he felt a loss of words. "It's been," he settled for, sticking his hands inside his pockets, mimicking MacLeod's stance.

"Yes, it has," MacLeod rasped, his throat dryer than sawdust. "I just wish it could have 'been'... more."

Methos' eyes flicked over MacLeod's face, searching and finally locking on his eyes. They stared at each other for a full minute, before Joe's discreet coughing dragged them out of their trance-like state.

"You boys look like you could use a drink. On the house," Joe offered, setting two beers on the bar. He motioned for the bartender to take a break, then settled himself on the stool behind the bar, waiting for the two Immortals.

Slowly, Methos turned and walked to the bar, sitting down and downing half the beer before MacLeod had even crossed the room. MacLeod took a long swallow of his, then set the bottle back to the bar.

"Time for you to leave, huh?" MacLeod stated quietly, addressing Methos.

"Yes." The word was colder, harder, sharper than any sword. And it settled right in the Scot's gut.

MacLeod forced the words out. "No forwarding address?"

"Nope," Methos drawled somewhat sarcastically, rocking his foot on the barstool rung. He lifted the beer to his lips, draining it. The empty bottle went down with a bang. "Another." He kept his gaze away from Joe's eyes. Another bottle appeared before him, and the empty one was taken.

MacLeod stared down at the bar, seeing Methos' warped reflection in the wood. "Methos-"

"Do you know no one had found me in nearly 200 years?" Methos interrupted quietly, picking at the label with his fingernail. "Methos was a legend. No one believed in my existence. I was just another Immortal, trying to stay out of the Game..."

"I did." MacLeod's whisper interrupted him.

That drew Methos' attention from his bottle. "What?" He turned on the stool until he was facing the Highlander.

MacLeod kept staring at his bottle. "I believed in you - in Methos. I come from a land full of legends. When I saw you, I knew." He turned until he was finally facing the Ancient Immortal. "I just knew."

Methos scoffed, "You're daft, MacLeod. You couldn't just _know_..." his taunt died away at the look in the Highlander's eyes. Something real, something that told him this was no fabrication; no lie. The word chivalry danced at the back of his mind, but instead of the mirth or anger that word should have engendered, it brought the Immortal back to the man in front of him. He knew his code of ethics and honor. And he knew he would not lie. Especially to a friend. Especially to him.

MacLeod watched the changes in the other Immortal's eyes, and knew he had broken through. To what, though, remained to be seen. Maybe he had broken through the normal defenses. Or maybe he had broken through to the essence that was Methos.

"Maybe you did," Methos murmured, turning back around to face the bar. But not before MacLeod caught the look in his eye.

 _You are scared_ , Duncan thought, surprise etched across his features. He quickly masked his expression, before Methos saw it and ran away again.

"You're not going to leave me alone, are you Highlander?" Methos asked, a tinge of sarcasm lacing his words.

MacLeod sifted through the other Immortal's words, listening to their timber, hearing the unasked question. "No," he answered quietly, resting his hand next to Methos' smaller one on the bar. "I'll not leave you alone," he promised softly, his accent growing stronger as his emotions ran high.

Methos started, staring hard at the hand so close to his own. It was darker, thicker, definitely the hand of a warrior. His - his was the hand of a painter, a musician, an artist.  _I'm not cut out for this life,_ he thought wryly, though he felt no amusement. The sight of MacLeod's hand so close to his - he could almost feel the heat radiating off of it, of off him. He slowly raised his head, turning it until he locked gazes once again with the Scot. His hand moved then, over the Highlander's, settling on top, as if it were made to be there.

Duncan held his breath. It had been a long time since he'd seduced a man. Never had the stakes been higher, nor the prize as sweet.

Methos' face broke into a very wry smile. "Well, it has to be your place. I don't have one anymore." He searched the Scot's face, looking for signs that he had misinterpreted. The pure desire radiating out of his warm brown eyes was his answer. That, and the hand now gripping his, holding on for dear life.

"Aye, the barge," Duncan whispered, rising to his feet. He shifted uncomfortably, subtly, but Methos knew he was already harboring a hard-on.

"Impatience of youth," he bantered playfully, running the back of his hand down MacLeod's chest, past his abdomen, straight to the partially erect sex, giving it a gentle push.

Duncan inhaled, stepping away from the other Immortal. "Age before beauty," he bowed slightly, indicating that Methos should pass. A smile teased at his full mouth.

"Thank you, kind sir," Methos shot back, flipping his coat regally as he strode out to his car. Duncan paused, then followed, sliding into the passenger's side.

From the bar's window, Joe Dawson watched the two Immortals drive off into the wintry late afternoon, a soft smile on his face. "About time, Mac," he whispered, then went back to the bar.

~~~~~~~

The ride to the barge was quiet, the soft strains of REM's "Everybody Hurts" the only sound between the two Immortals. Finally, Duncan turned his head, studying the other man.

"I'm not a bug," Methos murmured, flicking on the signal and turning right.

"What?" MacLeod's brow wrinkled as he tried to figure out what Methos was talking about.

"You're staring at me like I'm some sort of bug, or science experiment gone horribly wrong," he explained, squinting at the road. "It's unnerving."

"Aye, it is," Duncan agreed, fighting a grin. "Is that why you do it so much?"

A rare, true smile lit the Ancient Immortal's face. "I suppose so. Touche," he murmured.

The car rolled to a stop, and Methos shifted it into park. He turned to MacLeod, sighing. "I guess this is it," he murmured.

"Methos, you donna have to," MacLeod started to give him an out, but the other Immortal raised a hand, stopping him.

"Yes, I do." He took a deep breath. "I want to." He leaned forward, brushing his lips along Duncan's. His eyes sparkled with desire. "I want to," he repeated, a strange note creeping into his voice.

MacLeod didn't have time to analyze it, however, as Methos leaned across him and flicked the door open. "Come on, it's freezing in here," he gave a gentle push to MacLeod, then climbed out the other side, slamming the door. MacLeod walked up the gangplank first, fumbling with the keys before getting the right one. Methos was right behind him, his hands deep in his pockets, muttering, "Some time this century, MacLeod . . ."

The door flew open, and Duncan pulled Methos inside with him, kicking the door closed as he turned them both quickly. Backing Methos into the wall, Duncan devoured his mouth, his hands on the wall behind the other Immortal's shoulders.

Groaning softly, Methos allowed himself to be kissed, and quite thoroughly, before pushing him away. "MacLeod, give a guy a second, okay?" he panted, though his cheeks were flushed and his eyes nearly black with desire.

MacLeod took the time to remove his coat, throwing it onto the couch. His sweater followed, and he started to unbutton his shirt.

"Are we in any particular hurry?" Methos asked, fighting the laugh he could feel bubbling up inside him.

Duncan looked at him with those eyes, and Methos felt himself drowning. "I donna suppose so," he grumbled, his eyes resting on Methos' heavy clothing. "But you're a wee bit overdressed."

"I suppose I might be," Methos answered non-committally, though he shrugged out of his coat, hanging it with great care on the hook by the door. He turned around, expecting MacLeod to jump him again, but instead, the Highlander had moved across the room.

"MacLeod?" Methos called, as the room was suddenly bathed in the setting sun. Duncan walked through it, the golden light bouncing off his hair, causing a halo to form around him.  _Not just a boyscout; a Saint boyscout,_ Methos grumbled to himself, though he felt his sex begin to stir in anticipation.

"Are ye going to stand there all day?" Duncan called teasingly, watching with amusement as Methos walked casually - a bit too casually, to the couch, standing in front of the Scotsman.

They stared at one another, assessing each others' mood, gauging reactions, heightened awareness. The Quickening in Methos made Duncan dizzy; he was powerful, of that there was no doubt.

Methos felt the Highlander's Quickening like a dull ache in his stomach, moving lower, settling in his groin. A low moan escaped him, partially a sigh, partly want, and he took one of Duncan's hands in his own. "Such a strong hand," he remarked softly, kissing the palm. "Strong, yet gentle." He looked up into Duncan's eyes, finishing, "As are you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

Astonished, MacLeod could do nothing but blink in surprise at Methos' words. Methos glided a finger down his palm, feather-light touches that sent shivers up his spine. "Methos," he groaned, closing his eyes as the other Immortal licked his skin.

Methos nipped along Duncan's hand, his fingers teasing along his flushed skin. "Highlander," Methos growled, suddenly in the Scot's face, kissing him with such an intensity that Duncan's knees grew weak.

"Ohh, och," Duncan groaned, as Methos expertly seduced him. Enticed him. Made him tingle in places he didn't know he had . . . Methos' tongue laved the sides of MacLeod's neck, stealing kisses along his rough jaw, tugging gently at his earlobe while his hands caressed MacLeod's ass through his jeans.

"Methos," Duncan breathed, his mouth seeking the other Immortal's. Finding it, locking onto it, begging to be let inside . . .

Methos cupped Duncan's face, parting his lips for him, guiding him - though MacLeod did not yet realize it. He was intent on the Ancient's mouth, unaware of the skilled fingers opening his shirt, teasing at his nipples until they were hard, causing him to gasp and draw back for air.

Methos' hands didn't let up, tweaking and teasing the dark nipples until Duncan begged him to stop. Smiling roguishly, Methos nipped along the Highlander's neck, his breath hissing fire against the flushed skin. His hands slid down the firmly-packed chest, across the flat stomach, stopping when they encountered cloth.

"MacLeod," Methos hissed in his ear, his hands tugging firmly at the pants waist, "These have got to go." He planted kisses behind Duncan's ear, sucking lightly at the skin.

Duncan was having a hard time concentrating as Methos played him like an instrument. Each touch sent a resounding chord through his being, through his Quickening. Each lick, each nip, each brush, caused him to slip deeper and deeper into arousal. Blindly, he reached for the other Immortal, steadying himself on his shoulders. "I must sit down," he breathed, pleaded, and allowed the Ancient one to help him into the bedroom.

Methos settled him down on the bed with great care, stepping back when he was sure he wouldn't pass out.  _Are you sure you're ready for all this power, my friend_? Quickly tugging his sweater over his head, then shuffling out of his pants, Methos stood before MacLeod, in all his glory.

Duncan moaned softly, taking in the firm body, sleek as a dancer's, firm and compact, Methos' sex bouncing lightly from his activity. The amulet hanging from the cord around his neck caught his attention.

"A gift from my first wife," Methos explained quietly, watching as MacLeod's eyes glazed over for a brief minute, then cleared. Duncan raked his gaze up the slim chest, to once again drown in those hazel eyes.

"You are beautiful," he breathed, his heart pounding in his chest.

"As are you," Methos declared, finally moving. Kneeling at Duncan's feet, he pulled off the Highlander's shoes, then socks, placing them with care under the bed. Leaning up, he helped Duncan lay back, sliding off his pants with practiced ease. With a wicked glint in his eye, Methos carefully removed the Highlander's underwear, freeing his taunt sex, the end already weeping and begging for Methos to take it.

But not just yet.

Methos slid his body along Duncan's broad chest, staring down into his lust-filled eyes.

"MacLeod, I'm going to fuck you so hard, and so long, you'll think a Quickening is just a spark from a lamp."

Duncan groaned, closing his eyes as Methos' raspy voice hissed in his ear. "Och, Methos, what are you doing?" he called softly, his Scottish burr thickening as he lost himself.

Methos nipped along Duncan's neck, taking care not to break the skin. His warm breath raised goosebumps on the Highlander, causing him to shiver. "Anxious, are you?" Methos teased quietly, as his right hand slid down Duncan's torso, to rest at his hip.

Duncan arched his back, gasping as the Ancient Immortal's hand closed around his erection. "Methos!" he growled, grabbing Methos around the waist and flipping him over. He grinned down at his 'captive'. "Now, what are you going to do, Methos?" Duncan teased.

Methos glared up at him, his eyes shuttered. "I'm going to take your head," he declared quietly. Duncan started, then frowned, at the man he held in his arms.

"What do you mean? You don't mean..."

"Yes, I do," Methos reiterated calmly. "I don't take too kindly to my plans being messed up. I was all set to leave, to give up Adam Pierson and create a new life, when you showed up on Joe's doorstep. If it weren't for you, Highlander, I would be halfway around the world by now." With a quick move, Methos was again on top of Duncan, straddling him, his knees keeping the Scot's arms at his side. Duncan struggled under him, but Methos grabbed his neck.

"Don't," Methos threatened, his eyes reflecting the setting sun menacingly.

"But, you can't mean...you're not going to take my head over that!" Duncan's eyes grew wide, nearly black as panic settled in. "Does this mean nothing to you?" he cried, indicating their state of undress.

"If it did not mean anything, I would not be as angry as I am now," Methos kept his voice quiet and calm, though its timber was menacing. His voice matched him; unassuming at first glance, but when provoked, you learn exactly what he was capable of. "What are you going to do, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?" Methos tightened his grip on the Highlander's throat.

Duncan struggled, twisting his body, his panic growing as Methos reached over and down to the floor.

"You can't do this! It's not right! Don't I even get a chance to defend myself?" Duncan nearly shouted, his eyes on Methos' hand.

Methos shifted his weight slightly. With a mighty yell, he quickly slid his body down Duncan's, taking the engorged cock in his mouth and sucking hard.

Duncan's primal scream of outrage segued into a shout of pleasure as Methos' tongue swirled around the head, then nipped at it lightly. His hand slid between the muscled thighs, cupping Duncan's balls and squeezing gently, drawing another moan from the Scot.

"Methos, och, don't slow down," Duncan begged as Methos pulled back, lightly kissing along the shaft, watching Duncan's face. Taking a deep breath, Methos took Duncan in his mouth again, feeling the cock slide against the back of his throat, coaxing him.

Duncan thrust his hips, gently, trying not to hurt Methos, but he could feel his climax approaching, and soon his control was gone. Groaning loudly, Duncan's cock pulsed inside the Ancient Immortal's mouth as his climax ripped through his body.

Methos swallowed everything Duncan gave him, taking care to suckle him dry as the last of the climax shook him. The air became charged, a mild Quickening, sending a tingling sensation through Methos. Licking his lips, Methos crawled on hands and knees over Duncan's body, smiling down at him. The Highlander's face was blissful, a small smile teasing at his full lips.

"I told you I was going to take your head," Methos grinned cheekily as he lay on Duncan's chest, both of them catching their breaths.

"Aye, and I'd gladly offer it for you to take again," Duncan retorted just as cheekily, wrapping his arms around Methos, kissing him lightly. "But I think you have a far greater problem than I," he teased, sliding his hand around Methos' erection.

Methos' eyes closed as Duncan stroked him. "I want to be inside you, Duncan," Methos whispered, gasping at each stroke.

A warmness spread through the Highlander, and he took a deep breath to steady his wildly beating heart. "And I want you inside me," he replied quietly. "Over there."

Methos raised his head, looking in the direction Duncan was nodding. A wry smile again graced his lips, and he left the mock-protesting Highlander to retrieve the lubricant, then return to his waiting arms. He kissed him, asking, "Are you sure?"

Duncan's eyes blazed with desire. "I want to feel your Quickening," he whispered, brushing a hand through Methos' hair.

Nodding, Methos kissed him one more time before rolling him on his side, licking and nipping at his skin. Brushing his long hair aside, he sucked at the Highlander's neck.

"Methos," Duncan growled softly, his hips thrusting gently back against the other Immortal's nude body.

Grinning against the Highlander's shoulder, Methos quickly opened the jar of lubricant before sliding one arm through MacLeod's, running his hand over the broad chest. "Duncan," Methos drawled, kissing him once between his shoulderblades. His free hand dipped into the jar, coating his firm sex. Tweaking one of MacLeod's nipples, he quickly pushed inside the Highlander, feeling Duncan's tightness surround him, tug at him.

Groaning, Methos' hips twitched, thrusting himself deeper inside MacLeod. MacLeod pushed back, arching his back until Methos slid fully inside him, leaving them both gasping. Wrapping both arms around the Highlander, Methos began to thrust, softly at first, but gaining in strength as his desire overwhelmed him.

Duncan moaned, wrapped in his arms, matching him thrust for thrust, drawing the other Immortal deeply inside him. His hand closed over his sex, pumping in tandem with Methos' thrusts. Methos' forehead rested against one smooth shoulder, MacLeod's hair falling in his face as his body screamed for release. Thrusting wildly, he threw his head back, burying himself deeply inside the Highlander as he came.

Duncan quickly brought on his second climax, shouting as he felt Methos come, came himself, lost in the small-version Quickening that Methos put out. Power surged through him, electrifying his senses, the air fairly crackling with energy. His throat felt raw as he groaned, panting heavily, letting his body totally relax. Methos collapsed against his back, their sweat-soaked bodies drained.

"Well?" Methos breathed, carefully pulling his soft member from Duncan, groaning softly as he left the warm haven.

"Well what?" Duncan growled, rolling over and gathering Methos in his arms. He planted a kiss on Methos' lips, as Methos pushed the long, straggly hair off his face.

"Well," Methos smirked, "did I keep my promise?"

Duncan thought a second, then grinned. "Aye, that you did," he replied softly, kissing Methos once more. "And it's about as draining as a Quickening, too," he remarked, blinking sleepily.

"Then rest, Highlander," Methos instructed him softly, drawing him closer in his arms. Resting his head on MacLeod's shoulder, he listened to the other Immortal's heartbeat, until he drifted to sleep.

"Live; grow strong. Fight another day. And always remember this night, for I will never forget it," Methos murmured before he drifted to sleep himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~

MacLeod rolled over, wincing at the bright sunlight bouncing off the Seine. He stretched languidly, for a second wondering why he felt so content. Then the night's events came back to him, and a small smile lit his face. A second after that, the smile faded. He felt no Buzz. Methos was gone.

"I will never forget," Duncan murmured, his hand over the still-warm spot on his bed.

The End


End file.
